Reading William Gibson always brings out the ‘postmodern’ in me. Because Spook Country is set in the present day and incorporates existing technologies it was difficult to distinguish between the actual, the possible, and the improbable. This proved particularly disappointing when I learned, from an interview with Gibson on NPR, that “locative art” wasn’t yet a reality. Three dimensional recreations of actual events, such as the death of River Phoenix, located on the street in Los Angeles where it actually happened, broadcast from a server, and accessible only to those wearing the proper headgear, are, alas, still a fiction.

That splash of reality in no way discourages me from indulging in my own technological flights of fancy. Nor do these flights of fancy necessarily have any direct connection to the source. It’s just that Gibson’s writing brings out my childish fascination for ‘whiz bang’ gadgets and my adult sensibilities, tinged as they are with postmodern irony.

And so it was that I conceived the idea to unearth my old Kaypro 2 computer and rebuild it as a symbolic manifestation of the baby boomer generation’s triumph over technological obsolescence . Think of the possibilities. Think of the irony! This clunky, 1980′s metal box, a little gray around the temples, transformed into a state-of-the-art processing wonder. Here is postmodern double-coding at its best.

Paradise Thwarted

And yet oft times such high flying ideas will rapidly lose altitude. I am reminded of the iconic Reese’ s Peanut Butter Cup advertising campaign that depicts the clash of chocolate and peanut butter. Hardly a postmodern pairing, the peanut butter and chocolate found themselves in a peaceful, non-ironic coexistence. In the case of the Kaypro however, the clash was between postmodernity and nostalgistic purity.

Each of these concepts has its own moral imperative and its own standard bearers. Unfortunately for me, one of the “champions of nostalgia” is currently in possession of the Kaypro and wishes to honor the memory of its halcyon days by leaving it in its original, primitive, and unusable state. From this traditionalist perspective, my attempts to “give the Kaypro new meaning” only serve to confound the machine’s current function as a memory receptacle. It is a sad day when devotion to old memories interferes with the creation of new ones.

Sometimes it’s good to get out of the office. A periodic change of scenery can really boost the ol’ productivity. Perk on Main was my local cafe in PA and provided that rare combination of haven and productivity booster.

Driving to Perk in the morning was something to look forward to. The friendly hellos from the regulars on the front porch and the chipper, enthusiastic greeting from Jill when I walked inside always produced a smile. As I sat with my MacBook, at my accustomed table, the backdrop of friendly chatter gave me a sense of companionship whether or not I decided to participate.

There is a cafe within walking distance of my new apartment in Richmond, but it’s not the same. Jill’s friendly hello has been replaced by the apathetic grunt of an unsmiling, apathetic barrister with an unhealthy adherence to a “no breakfast sandwiches after 10:30 am” rule. In the face of this indignity I contemplate the 6 hour drive to Perk but, for the time being, I have opted to spend more time in my office.

I had gone back to the car to get the cloth grocery carrier my wife and I had purchased at Trader Joes. There’s something about the local farmer’s market that brings out our ‘socially responsible’ selves and it seems that Linda and I are not alone in this.

On my way back from the car and about a block and a half from the market, I spotted another couple, laden with cloth bags filled with fresh, organic produce, walking away from the market. There was a look of concern and trepidation on the wife’s face as she slowed to a stop. She called to her husband and, as he turned to look at her, she said in something of an undertone, “Honey, I have to go back.” In answer to his questioning expression, she closed the gap between them and quietly explained, “She gave me too much money”.

I had walked past them at this point but turned to see whether her husband had altered her resolve. He had not. She was following closely behind me and, as we entered the bank parking lot that was the Sunday home to the Emmaus Farmer’s Market, my curiosity got the better of me. I watched the woman as she headed directly to one of the busier stalls. She waited patiently for the older of two women behind the array of vegetables to finish another transaction and, without fanfare, handed her a $10 bill explaining, “you gave me too much change”. She was acknowledged with a quiet “thank you” and a slight nod.

That was that. But I can’t help wondering if I would have witnessed the same scene in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Would this conscientious wife be willing to take the long journey back from the parking lot and endure the anticipated blank stare of incomprehension on the clerk’s face to resolve her moral dilemma? Or would she even experience a moral dilemma? Is there a different set of normative behaviors at local farmers markets, where we are faced with the people who have grown their very own produce and carted them to market, than at the local Big Box where we transact with apathetic hourly employees? Or is there, perhaps, a different type of customer at the farmer’s market than there is at the Wal-Mart? I’m not sure I have a definitive answer.